1Robert Frost 1874-1963 2The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. A poem is a momentary stay against confusion. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat. Free verse is like playing tennis with the net down. --Robert Frost 3Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. 4Mending Wall Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. 5Mending Wall And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more There where it is we do not need the wall He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. 6Mending Wall Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." 7After Apple Picking My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a treeToward heaven still,And there's a barrel that I didn't fillBeside it, and there may be two or threeApples I didn't pick upon some bough.But I am done with apple-picking now.Essence of winter sleep is on the night,The scent of apples I am drowsing off.I cannot rub the strangeness from my sightI got from looking through a pane of glassI skimmed this morning from the drinking troughAnd held against the world of hoary grass.It melted, and I let it fall and break.But I was wellUpon my way to sleep before it fell,And I could tellWhat form my dreaming was about to take.Magnified apples appear and disappear,Stem end and blossom end,And every fleck of russet showing clear. 8After Apple Picking My instep arch not only keeps the ache,It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.And I keep hearing from the cellar binThe rumbling soundOf load on load of apples coming in.For I have had too muchOf apple-picking I am overtiredOf the great harvest I myself desired.There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.For allThat struck the earth,No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,Went surely to the cider-apple heapAs of no worth. 9After Apple Picking One can see what will troubleThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.Were he not gone,The woodchuck could say whether it's like hisLong sleep, as I describe its coming on,Or just some human sleep. 10The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveller, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no feet had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. 11Langston Hughes 1902-1967 12W. E. B. Dubois (1868-1963)Booker T. Washington (1856-1915)Malcolm X (1925-1965) Martin Luther King (1929-1968) 13Harlem What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? 14Mother to Son Well, son, I'll tell youLife for me ain't been no crystal stair.It's had tacks in it,And splinters,And boards torn up,And places with no carpet on the floor --Bare.But all the timeI'se been a-climbin' on,And reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere there ain't been no light.So boy, don't you turn back.Don't you set down on the steps'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.Don't you fall now --For I'se still goin', honey,I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. 15I, Too I, too, sing America.I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.Tomorrow,I'll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody'll dareSay to me,"Eat in the kitchen,"Then. 16I, Too Besides, They'll see how beautiful I amAnd be ashamed--I, too, am America. 17Song for a Dark Girl Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) They hung my black young lover To a cross roads tree. Way Down South in Dixie (Bruised body high in air) I asked the white Lord Jesus What was the use of prayer. Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) Love is a naked shadow On a gnarled and naked tree. 18Theme for English B The instructor said,Go home and writea page tonight.And let that page come out of you--Then, it will be true. I wonder if it's that simple?I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.I went to school there, then Durham, then hereto this college on the hill above Harlem.I am the only colored student in my class.The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevatorup to my room, sit down, and write this page 19Theme for English BIt's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear youhear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.I like a pipe for a Christmas present,or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.I guess being colored doesn't make me not likethe same things other folks like who are other races.So will my page be colored that I write? 20Theme for English BBeing me, it will not be white. But it will bea part of you, instructor. You are white-- yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American.Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you.But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me-- although you're older--and white-- and somewhat more free.This is my page for English B.

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